


Reflexion

by celeryy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Bucky Barnes Feels Bad About Things, Gen, implied dehumanization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:40:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celeryy/pseuds/celeryy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier meets a squirrel. It doesn't end well for the squirrel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflexion

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a pun, I guess?
> 
> The Soldier is called "Subject X" just because I wanted to shake things up.

A doctor, a man in a suit, and Subject X were sitting on a bench in the courtyard. Subject X had recently undergone an upgrade, and was being shown off, or so he understood. This is the extent of what he understood, as no one explained very much to him beyond what he was required to know.  
  
“Yes, excellent reflexes,” the doctor was saying. “In fact, they even surpass typical human capabilities. He feels no sensation, but we found a way to preserve the neurological connections so that—“ Here, the doctor cut off with a start.  
  
Subject X’s attention had drifted during the conversation. In fact he had not really been paying attention to begin with; they were speaking about him but he was not included in the discussion. Instead he had begun to notice his immediate surroundings. Although Subject X's attention could often drift, his powers of perception were very highly attuned and tended to snag on bursts of shape, sound, light that were sudden or unexpected. It was an essential part of the specialized training that made him so valuable, or so he’d been told, but sometimes on his foggier days the reflexes became difficult to regulate.  
  
Like a flash, the metal hand darted out and snatched at something moving in the bush. There was a squawk, and it emerged with a very alarmed squirrel, the little thing scrabbling wildly and ineffectually against the shining fingers. The two men speaking about him were quickly diverted. The doctor frowned. The suited man looked slightly frightened.  
  
Subject X looked at the writhing creature with a strangely detached expression, like it had jumped into his grasp and he didn’t know what to do with it. However, rather than looking up for direction, like he might have usually done, he seemed utterly entranced. Here, in his hand, was a tiny vessel, helpless and alive, and he could almost feel it. Without any input the fingers held fast like a fixed cage.  
  
The other two men on the bench were still looking at him. The squirrel squeaked, and he gave it a look of bemused curiosity.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing with that?”  
  
Subject X looked up at the sharp tone. His entire expression changed, crumpling nervously. The fingers of his left hand tightened, but he didn’t notice, as it was a reflexive action and the whole arm was lacking sensation. He might have noticed the unhappy squall of the trapped squirrel, but his attention was fully attuned to the doctor. He had discerned a reprimand and, through the haze of fearful paralysis, was trying to parse whether something was expected of him.  
  
“Are you even listening?”  
  
Subject X opened his mouth uncertainly, as though he hoped some sound would emerge but wasn’t quite solid on the process. He made a creaky noise that might have been “I…” but stopped, unsure of what to follow it up with. The doctor scoffed.  
  
“ _Stupid_!”  
  
Subject X flinched. This was unfortunate; the squirrel in his metal hand squished apart with an unpleasant crunch.  
  
Discerning the looks of disgust on the other two men’s faces, Subject X looked down and saw the mess. His eyes widened. One by one the metal fingers pried open and the squirrel fell to the ground with a small splat.  
  
“As you can see, he can have difficulty gauging his own strength, due to the aforementioned lack of feedback,” the doctor supplied to his companion. The other man nodded weakly.  
  
“There’s always some trouble after a recent recalibration. He usually grows out of it quickly. _Isn’t that right_?” Here he addressed Subject X directly; Subject X drew in an audible breath through his nose, which wasn’t much of an answer, but the doctor seemed not to expect one. The doctor did, however, narrow his eyes after a moment when Subject X failed to raise his head.  
  
Subject X exhaled softly, like a sigh. He looked very sadly at the crushed squirrel.  
  
“Now you’ve got your hand dirty,” said the doctor disapprovingly.  
  
Subject X flexed his fingers slowly, looking chastised. His lower lip trembled.  
  
“Don’t touch anything with that. I’ll get someone to clean you up.”  
  
Subject X said nothing.  
  
_I didn’t want to hurt it._  
  
Subject X didn’t speak much (some of the few who knew about him were under the impression that he couldn’t; he could, it just didn’t happen very often). However, he sometimes thought, and occasionally in complete sentences, and this sentence appeared very vividly inside his mind just now, while he looked at the swimming image of lumpy fur on the sidewalk.  
  
_I didn’t want to hurt it._  
  
Some of the few who knew about him also believed that Subject X was not allowed to _want_ , and would have been alarmed by this thought if they could hear it. However, this was also a misconception. Subject X had the capacity to want—he could hardly help it—and as long as the wanting aligned with what others wanted from him it was perfectly allowed. In fact, mis-aligned wants happened frequently and tended to be tolerated as well, as long as he remembered not to act on them.  
  
This want was something of an anomaly, which disturbed him. Firstly, it was a not-want, which was never a good sign. Furthermore, he didn’t usually want or not-want in the past tense. It seemed…excessive. Extravagant.  
  
He didn’t know why he was upset. It was not the first time the metal fingers had crushed away life and, certainly, laughably, it wouldn’t be the last. But those other times. The other times he _did_ mean to, he wanted to—or, so he’d been informed. Because there was a point to it. Yes, he thought, a point. That was key. The point itself tended to change, they told him different things, he couldn’t remember. But anyways, the existence of a point. That made it easier, to mean, and to want.  
  
_I didn’t want to hurt it._  
  
Subject X was aware that his heart rate had risen. He breathed silently through his mouth, face hot.  
  
This was different. Maybe that was why.

**Author's Note:**

> This little seed of an idea has been in my head for a long time, so posting this drabble was accompanied by a disproportionate sense of accomplishment. Clearing out dust bunnies feels great!


End file.
